Control Freak

“And if they demand to know how much we paid for a piece or if any other museums wish to exhibit it?”

“That wouldn’t be my place to say.”

He asks me several more questions of this sort, and I give him my answers. They’re all common sense questions, and I think he’s trying to establish whether I have good judgment. If that’s what he cares about most, I can probably do this job standing on my head. My only poor judgment is for myself.

“The work is glorified admin, but if you want to get a foot in at the museum, or any museum, it’s a start. I understand you’re completing a Masters so the contract will be for two months.”

He looks away, distracted by sorting through a pile of catalogs, and I realize he’s offered me the job. Just like that. Are we going to ignore him shouting at me in the middle of dad’s exhibition?

“Did you want to talk about what happened last night?”

He puts the catalogs down. “Yes. Thank you for reminding me. There are a great many staircases in this museum. Please keep your full attention on them as you move around the building.”

I feel my eyebrows creep up my forehead. What to do, tell him he’s an asshole and forfeit the job offer, or shut up about it and stew at my desk every time he sends me a perfunctory email? I don’t want to be kicking myself over letting him talk to me how he likes for the next two months.

“You needn’t have been so ferocious about it. I was scared enough.”

Mr. Blomqvist’s eyes narrow, and what he’s thinking is written all over his face: Good.

“I reacted to seeing a young woman nearly plummet to her death. You should consider how your actions affect those around you.”

I should consider it. I wish I could crack my head open and show him all my jagged thoughts crowding against each other, every single one of them screaming about the consequences of every little thing I do. But what would be the point? He’s clearly one of those people who think millennials all eat overpriced avocado toast and expect the world to fall into their laps.

So do I tell him to go fuck himself, or no?

The summer spreads before me, empty of purpose. When I have nothing to do, my bad habits really flex their muscles, and I have nothing to beat them back with. They kept us busy on the ward for a reason.

He’d be my boss. I don’t have to like him. We just have to be civil to each other. I’ll use him as a springboard to something better after I finish my Masters, and if he turns into a nightmare in the meantime, I’ll just quit. I’ve dealt with bigger monsters than Stian Blomqvist.

“Yes, one should,” I say with a polite smile, reverting to my mother’s cultured phrases, sounding as if I agree with him but actually pointing out that he should be considering his actions, not me.

He’s Swedish. He probably didn’t notice.

Chapter Three

Stian

Miss Petrou smiles coolly at me, thinking I don’t know what she just said. She’s rather rude. But then, so am I. From her answers to my questions she seems to have some common sense, though she’s obviously highly strung. Her hands are gripping each other so tightly that her flesh is mottled red and white.

If she goes to pieces I’ll just fire her later. “The hours are going to be long each day, but we pay overtime.”

“When would you like me to start?”

I glance at my watch and stand up. There are several of Eric’s messes I want to clean up before I can turn to the Laxos exhibition again. “Now, if possible. Lacey, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. And that’s fine. Dad said you’d probably want me to start right away.”

She follows me out of my office, and I point to her desk and computer and pass her a key. “This is where you’ll work. Here’s the key to the drawers. I’ll arrange for someone from HR to come by later to give you a security induction. Get a notebook and come with me.”

As well as the Laxos exhibition opening in September, we’re about to showcase a series of Phoenician artifacts. I want all the descriptions redone. Eric wrote them, and they’ve been irritating me. There was a long fucking list of things he did that I didn’t like and I never got round to correcting this one.

We go through the exhibition piece by piece, and I put red marker through the description cards I don’t like and explain why. Lacey takes pictures of each one on her phone and makes notes.

“How long will they take?” I ask her as I walk us the long way back to my office. I want to show her where the Laxos exhibition will be set up.